Whit
The house is quiet,but I rarely am, so I set up shop in the front parlor where I’m less likely to wake everyone up. It’s just me, the Baby Grand Piano, a few decorative chairs, two shopping bags and a shit ton of wrapping paper. And ribbons. And the tape and scissors are around here somewhere. No one spends much time in here, so I’m going to need to clean up my mess before I head up to bed. I don’t think that piano has been tuned since I was in high school, and those chairs are hard as rocks. But I’ve got Bailey’s in my hot cocoa and tunes in my ears, so I’m good. And yes, the rest of the East Coast is fast asleep, waiting for a stranger to creep down their chimneys and leave them gifts. But I’m wide awake. My sleeping pill could take care of that, but I procrastinated and left everything to the last minute, as usual. I stopped at the mall this afternoon, and I putzed around in the kitchen instead of wrapping. I also played my fair share of video games and took two separate naps. So, I guess I can’t bitch about staying up past midnight to play Santa’s Little Helper.
Wrapping is my least favorite part of the holiday season. I don’t mind shopping, and crowds don’t usually bother me. Cooking is my jam, and stringing lights is my damn calling. But fitting a sheet of paper around a box and making it look like I wasn’t drunk when I did it? That’s not easy.
But the tunes are helping, so that’s good. In a nod to the season, and the fact it’s Christmas Eve, I’ve got holiday music on and I’m rocking out to Wham’s “Last Christmas” and trying to wrap the cylindrical package containing my mom’s favorite perfume when I see the light go on in the kitchen. I stop dueting with George Michael just long enough to hear footsteps and see the outline of Lucy’s perfect shape in the shadows.
“Whit? Is that you?”
“Yeah, did I wake you? I tried to be quiet, but that’s never been my strong suit.”
“No, not at all,” she says, tugging at the flannel shirt she's wearing. No doubt it’s a men’s XXL, and damn me for being instantly jealous of whatever stupid ex-boyfriend of hers it originally belonged to.
She yawns. “I just can’t sleep. I’ve been here over a week now, and the bed is perfect. The sheets too. Your mom went overboard trying to make me feel at home, but I just can’t settle in. The condo dad and I lived in was in a much busier section of town. Maybe I’m used to the noise?”
Lifting up an Airpod, I nod. “I get that. Those chairs are about as comfortable as the concrete driveway, but feel free to cuddle up.”
“I was going to get a drink. Warm milk puts people to sleep, right? Or is that just on TV?”
“No clue,” I shrug. “But if you put hot cocoa mix and Bailey’s in like I do, you really can’t go wrong. Let me make you a cup.” I dig a blanket out of the basket by the piano and toss it her way.
A few minutes later, I’m back with a mug of cocoa and a hard-on. Jesus. Lord.
Lucy’s curled up on one of the wingbacks, her legs tucked under her body, the blanket around her shoulders, and her left ass cheek exposed. Note to self: stepsister doesn’t wear panties when she sleeps. Fuck me standing, but there’s nothing I’d rather do right now than dangle some mistletoe just south of her belly button.
I clear my throat, and she reaches her hand out. “Thanks. I bet this is good.”
“I’m on my third one. Which is maybe why that package looks so lopsided?”
“Do you want some help? Wrapping is one of my favorite things to do.”
Of course it is. “Nah, I’m good,” I lie because, for a thousand reasons, I’m way less than good. I want Lucy. And not just her body. I want all of her. In my head, I’m still that naïve sixteen-year-old who thought he’d get to hold on to his girl forever.
She’s sipping her doctored cocoa, and I’m wishing to hell my dick would stand down. So I pop a squat on the floor, pick another gift from the bag and get right back to my task. At this rate, I’ll be in bed by three, not that it matters. There’s no way I’m sleeping tonight. It’s too late to take a pill, otherwise I’ll snooze through tomorrow’s festivities. And knowing Lucy’s room is right next to mine? Yeah, sleep and I won’t be friends until I’m back at Bainbridge.
I pop my Airpod back in and restart the song since it’s one of my favorites. I keep my voice low, in deference to the time, but my mom’s room is clear across the house, and she’s as devoted to her white noise machine as I am to 80s hair metal, so I let myself get into it and kill those high notes. When my concert’s over, I look up to see Lucy staring at me.
“Not a big George Michael fan? Technically, this is Wham!, but let’s face it, this one’s all George.”
“I’ve never heard that song before in my life. But you make me want to hear it again.”
Her compliment throws me, and some small part of my brain knows that Lucy means danger, so it grabs hold of my favorite defense mechanism: humor. I fake wounding myself and say, “You’re killing me, Luce.”
She sits up a little, and I can’t lie, I’m missing the view of that perfect ass. God. It’s bad that I want to bite it, right? That’s bad. No biting.
“...are you?”
Shit, I totally missed all that. “Sorry, I spaced out. What’s up?”
“I just asked what’s with the whole 80s thing? I know you love it, but I don’t know why. You’re older than I am by a whole week, but you’re not fifty, so what’s with the oldies?”
“So much to unpack there, Luce. First off, they’re not ‘oldies’. We save that term for music from the 50s and early 60s. And I’m not fifty, but my dad would be...wow. Fifty-four, I think?” I’m doing the mental math, but the look on her face stops me. It’s not one of pity—God, I hate that look, just one of total embarrassment, which is almost as bad. “Hey, Luce, it’s cool. Seriously. I’m not being a dick with the whole dead dad card. I’m just being honest.” I set the scissors aside and face her. “My dad, Jesse, was a deejay in Philly in the 80s and 90s. Then he met my mom at a party. He was about ten years older than she was, but I guess they took one look at each other, and they just knew. Anyway, he moved down here to be with her, they got married, had me, and the rest is...well, the rest is really depressing. But the point is, music was his thing. And I don’t remember him. At all. So I guess music has always been my way of connecting with him, you know? I even have a bunch of his old shows on cassette, and I paid a small fortune to get a tape player installed in my car, but it was totally worth it.”
“That’s...great,” she says, her voice soft. “Was he a singer, too?”
I laugh. “For a little while, yeah. He and some buddies from high school had a band and he was the frontman. They didn’t last, though, and I guess my dad was happier spinning tunes than singing them.
“Have you ever thought of it?” At my questioning look, she keeps going. “Being in a band?”
